The Mirror Bleeds to the Past
by Senora Swanky
Summary: Things are not always what they seem.A mirror distorts perception. But how distorted are the perceptions of Paul Morlock, who narrowly survived his childhood in Derry, Maine? How much more distorted do they become after he dies in Kingdom Hospital?R&R ple
1. Prologue: Hell Mary, Full of Disgrace

He had been there before - years before. Oh, how he wanted to look into them, but he knew that if he did death wouldn't be the worst thing that would come of it. Paul Morlock would not look into the deadlights. He'd turn away as he did before. There was solice and security in the darkness. He knew if he didn't look it would be moments before he'd wake up again with mind and body intact. And almost like clockwork the lights faded and the fifteen year boy old woke up.

However, this time conciousness in the living world would shortly slip away and be lost forever, and so would his soul. When his eyes fluttered open for the last time all he saw was the murkiness of the water. The putrid, smoke filled air burned his lungs. The smell of burning gas and chemicals filled his nostrils, and he soon noticed he couldn't breath. He banged against the walls of the tank but the weightlessness in the water negated the force of his arms and legs. The lid was shut tight. It was always shut tight; Dr. Gottreich was always to blame for that. Dr. Gottreich, well, he could be blamed for alot more than that. Panic overcame him as the only light to pierce the murky darkness was the red glow of the flames surrounding the sensory deprivation tank.

The saline solution, meant to be kept the same temperature as his body, began to heat up around him, and the air coming through the tube became thicker and more rancid than before. Paul let himself sink into the tank. Holding his breath, he attempted to peer through the glass only to see his reflection staring back at him amdist the red glow. More than the flames, and more than the air he couldn't inhale, it was the reflection that scared him the most. If he could see himself in an object, he could also see her.

He heard her bell ring. She always had a bell. _It was a death bell._ Paul knew the lights had to go on before she could ring it, but there were no means of turning on any lights in the tank - just water, just Paul, just his reflection, and then hers too.

_Hell Mary, full of disgrace, the lord has abandoned thee. _

She appeared in the glass, blood running down her pale face, over her eyes from the dents in her forehead. Bloody Mary. She was ringing her bell for him, and he knew it. _It was a death bell. _The water got hotter and he gasped for air. His throat burned and his lungs ached and then ... the lights came back. But like all those times before Paul wouldn't look into them. He wouldn't look into the deadlights.


	2. Chapter 1: Dontcha Want It, Derry?

_Lizzie Borden took an ax. She gave her mother 40 whacks. When she saw what she had done, she gave her father 1 ... 2 ... 3 ... 4 ... 5 ... 6 ..._

Rena Davenport's feet hit the pavement rhythmically as she skipped over the white rope spun by two other girls. They sang the rhyme in haunting unison. They took turns jumping, trying to beat out each other's number. _She gave her father 41. _

Three witches casting a spell, he thought as he watched them from across the street. The tale of Lizzie Borden hadn't been unfamiliar to Paul Morlock, who was perched upon the cement curb in front of his house. Not that anyone in the New England area was unfamiliar with Lizzie Borden.

He sat with a stick in hand; he hadn't many toys anymore, not since ... not since things fell apart. Lizzie Borden had a toy though. She had the toy of all toys, Paul thought. Lizzie Borden had an ax.

_She gave her mother 40 whacks. _

Though if Paul ever had that toy, he'd spare his mother. If he had an ax he'd spare his mother.

_When she saw what she had done, she gave her father 41. _

Yeah, he'd give his father a couple. That bitter, wretched man deserved a couple of whacks. However, it was Mr. Morlock who had been the one to give them from time to time, and it was Paul who was to endure them when they came. Perhaps it made him feel more like a man after the market crashed, and the economy faltered, and Mr. Morlock couldn't support his wife and kid anymore. It was a good thing they had just the one, had they had more kids they might not have been able to keep the house.

Or maybe his father wouldn't deserve it; maybe Paul was just a bad boy thinking bad thoughts - a sick boy as he'd later be told by Dr. Gottreich. He pushed back the thoughts of whacking his father and mindlessly shoved the stick into the metal sewer grate beneath his feet. He did that continuously to each hole that had leaves clogging it.

He looked into the now cleared sewer grate and saw something yellow floating up towards him. It looked like a balloon.

_We float. We all float down here. Don't you want to float, Paul?_

Paul would float later ... in a tank filled with saline in Gottreich Hospital. When he died, he would be floating. He tucked his bony, childish legs under him on the curb and leaned over to look again into the sewer. The yellow balloon floated against the metal grate. He took his stick and poked at it, trying to see what was below it because that seemed colorful too. He kept poking but it kept floating back up each time he pushed it down, and then finally ... POP!

The balloon exploded beneath the stick but something else had grabbed on to it. From Paul's stand point he couldn't see a thing, including what his stick was caught on, but whatever it was pulled the damned thing right out of his slim hand. It seemingly devoured it.

Paul stood up over the grate. Had he known what was down there he would have thought twice. Other kids that had done the same had lost their legs if they were lucky, or their lives if they weren't. Paul hadn't had much luck, but he was spared that day in early April. Peering into the sewer below, he thought he saw ... no ... he did see an ax laying below him. Beneath the ax was an oily reflective surface where he could see himself in the sewer. From that angle it appeared he was holding the ax.

Who would he whack with it? His father? Butch Bowers, perhaps?

_Dontcha want it?_

Sure, he wanted it alright - the toy of all toys. Hell if he could find a way he'd venture into the sewers to get it. And when he did, Butch Bowers would be scared, he thought. Then he'd be scared. They'd all be scared of Paul Morlock if he had an ax.

Butch Bowers was the town bully, much like his son would be years later. Karma and bad parenting would pay him back fully in 1958. Paul Morlock would be dead almost twenty years by the time Henry Bowers would stab his father in the neck with a switchblade, ending his life and his bad reputation. Henry Bowers had seen the deadlights and lost his mind in '58. He later met his own brutal end in May of 1985. Paul wasn't one to mess with Butch. He avoided him as best as he could. Their mothers were friends, however, and when they'd talk in public the boys were forced into contact.

Most of Paul's childhood nightmares stemmed from stories Butch would tell. Butch's ability to play on the younger boy's fears made Paul feel weak, and that weakness later turned to anger. But Butch had a lot of stories, which mostly fascinated Paul even if they kept him up at night. He'd tell stories of an evil clown named Pennywise who ate children, stories that had to do with a certain house on Neibolt Street, and the story that Paul feared the most, which was that of Bloody Mary.

He'd heard the story before from kids in school; he heard a lot of different versions from the kids in school. They said her name was Mary Worth. Hell, some of the older kids even went into the cemetery at night to look for her grave. Some even claimed they found it, but not Butch, he didn't believe in Mary Worth. Butch was always setting the record straight, even if it took bashing a few heads in to get the point across.

Paul first heard of Mary Worth in the Barrens. Rena Davenport was there too, along with some other neighborhood kids. It was a dark October night and they had all met there after school to tell scary stories. The kids were all between the ages of eight and twelve, Paul being one of the younger ones. A kid named Harris told the story, he was about eleven, or perhaps a bit younger.

"What happens is this," he said matter-of-factly, standing and getting the audience's attention. "You have to have a mirror in a dark room with all the lights off. That's when she comes, when you call her by saying 'I believe in Mary Worth' thirteen times while spinning around in circles."

"Then what happens?" A girl with sandy blonde hair asked.

"Then she appears in the mirror and scratches out your eyes to replace her own."

"That's not the story, moron," Bowers chimed in, standing up. "Her name isn't Mary Worth, it's Mary Jensen."

Harris opened his mouth to protest but Butch cut him off before the words began to form.

"She's a girl our age from Lewiston that disappeared during the fire at the Gates Falls Mill way back when. They never found her or her body after the fire. They say she made a deal with the devil and now she's damned to live by taking souls. So when you go into the dark room with the mirror you have to call her by saying 'Bloody Mary' thirteen times while spinning and she'll appear. They say she has a bell and if you don't turn on the lights fast enough she'll ring it and you'll die instantly."

Paul looked incredulous but the idea of it bothered him. It bothered him so much he couldn't sleep that night or the next. At night, when it got dark he covered the mirror in his room with a large white sheet. This worked for a while, just until he started imagining shapes in the dark. That was when things got worse.


	3. Chapter 2: Storm Clouds Arrive

Skies over head darkened with pregnant grey clouds. The rain in Derry held an ominous presence. Things had a way of happening when it rained - bad things. Paul watched as the girls stopped jumping rope. They all ran into Rena's house squealing, leaving the long white rope lying motionless on the sidewalk. Like a snake in the grass, he thought. He visualized it leaping up off the cement and lunging out at him.

Beneath his feet the colorful thing in the sewer began to creep. Perhaps he sensed it, the real snake in the grass, but he never did look down as the large, heavy rain drops fell about him and on him. Under him talon like fingers of that colorful being inched up towards Paul's ankles; surely no one would be watching. Regardless, the people of Derry had a way of turning a cheek to strange occurrences.

Inside his own house his parents worriedly discussed their son's new found odd behavior. Had he been wetting the bed? His mother brought the thought to the table, but later dismissed it since there was no sign of a urine stain on the sheet he hung over his mirror every night. What was the problem at hand? Why the sheet? Why every night? She tried to reach a logical explanation as the rain outside began to pour down.

"Paul Morlock, get in this house before you catch your death!" His mother called him in as the claw like hand shrunk back a bit.

He turned to run back to his house, tripping over but not noticing the stray green finger that still protruded from the grate. He stopped for a minute, and turned back one more time to admire his ax. Yes, his ax. It wasn't in his reach, but it was his.  
_  
Dontcha want it?  
_  
He let it be and ran inside with his damp hair and wet shoes, where he was scolded by his mother for not coming in sooner and then some more by his father. His departure left the creature in the grate hungry. It was a hunger that would not be soon forgotten - a craving for children, a taste for a small boy.

"What the hell were you thinking, boy? Standing over a sewer in the rain!" His father's green eyes were blazing mad. It didn't take long for Paul to notice the belt wrapped around his clenched hand. He shrank back a little, knowing what was coming to him.

Paul said nothing, but shook his head sullenly. His eyes pleaded for his father to have mercy on him just this once. His father took another step forward and Paul recoiled towards the door. The man growled and took a fist full of his son's hair, pulled him forward into the entrance way and dragged him into the living room, where the boy's crying began. The first blow rendered him silent and breathless, but the ones that followed only got him screaming louder.

"Haven't I told, ya? Haven't I? How many times, son! You stay away from the sewers! And you get inside before the rain!" Each blow became harder as he yelled. Paul clung to the arm of the couch for support.

"I was just in front the house; I didn't go no where!" Paul blubbered his plea, hoping his father would stop.

"You don't know what's down there, boy! You don't know what I've seen! You don't know!" he continued.

"John! Stop it!" Paul's mother cried out and grabbed her husband's hand before it struck down again. "Have you gone mad!"

Katherine pried the belt out of his hand. John's face softened almost instantly. He looked down at his son who was screaming and crying on the floor. His wife lifted the hysterical, sobbing child up into her arms, revealing the thin red lines marring the back of his shirt. His jaw dropped, realizing what he had done. Katherine was right; he had gone mad. Real mad.

Paul had received a number of whackings before, but none that compared to that April night. Before, they had been more thought provoking. His father would send him into the yard to find a switch worthy of his punishment. He groaned and grunted and often even cried during his search knowing what was to come after. It was always well anticipated. The larger the switch the fewer the amount of whacks, the smaller the switch the more whacks he got. There'd be no way out of it for Paul; he'd get his whacks either way.

His mother set him down on her lap as she sat back on the couch. He gasped for air between sobs. Her attempts at being soothing weren't working since her hands kept caressing the thin gashes on his back. His father kneeled down next to the couch. Paul latched on to his mother for protection. Oh, but when he'd get his hands on that ax ... what he would do to his father, he thought.

"Don't you touch him, John! You've done enough!"

"Katherine, I didn't mean to..."

"But you did! He was outside playing; it wasn't his fault it rained!" She hugged the boy protectively to her chest. "Have you lost your mind, John?" His mother was a city girl until her family inherited some property and a house in southern Maine near Dark Score Lake, but she was still a New Yorker at heart. And when she was mad, that's when the city girl in her came out.

His father ran his hands down his face. He had definitely lost it. And he had made his son bleed, his only son, his little boy. The sobs began to dwindle down, and the only thing present other than the streaks of tears was the anger and pain on the child's face.

"Paul, I'm so sorry. I was worried about you, that's all. I didn't mean to hurt you so badly." The guilt in his voice made him sound weak and close to tears, but all Paul could feel was rage towards the man who minutes before ruthlessly beat him with his belt. "It's just them sewers, Paul. You gotta stay away from them sewers. There are dangerous things down there. Things, Paul. Things ... I can't remember..." He continued trying to sound reassuring, but mostly he sounded like a crazed Yankee on the brink of a nervous break down.

"John, that's quite enough! I'm taking him upstairs to get cleaned up for dinner. You! You! Think about what you've done!" she spat, her voice cracking with emotion as her pointed finger waved at his face. "I don't wanna hear about no sewers no more, John!" She let Paul get to his feet and lead him up the stairs. His body ached with every step he climbed, but he made an effort to hold back the tears.

Katherine Morlock was a gentle woman, but tough when she needed to be. Even when she was broken she was still tough; after the depression had hit home she was a wreck, but still tough. Her family lived out in Lewiston and Castle Rock. She had moved to Derry after she and John were married. They had lived there happily, the three of them, until the financial crisis took a permanent stay. It was around the same time John had begun to crack.

He always had a temper, she had known that. He was a strict father, too; if a whacking was necessary, he would give it and she would not stand in the way. He started working extra hours to keep the pay coming when people in his job were let off, which is when the cracks in his demeanor began to form. It was something he couldn't remember, he claimed. It was something that kept him up at night pacing the halls. Something, something that came from the sewers, something dangerous, something from the Derry Stand Pipe, something he saw, something he witnessed - something he couldn't remember. But he was remembering it; he was starting to remember, and as he did his ability to be a father to Paul began to dissipate along with his sanity.

0) window.locationthis.optionsthis.selectedIndex.value" name"sid"> Chapters Story Index 1. Prologue - Hell Mary, Full of Disgrace 2. Dontcha Want It, Derry? 3. Storm Clouds Arrive 4. Lightning Crashes >>   



	4. Chapter 3: Lightning Crashes

Dinner was as it had been for months, meager, but it did the job of filling bellies. Katherine Morlock was as sick of cooking potatoes as she and her boys were sick of eating them. Night after night - potatoes, potatoes, potatoes. Paul stabbed his fork at his meal with disinterest. 

"Paul, eat your supper," his mother said, too weak to sound forceful. The exhaustion in her voice was evident. She had not the energy to nag anymore, and she didn't want to either - not after the events of the afternoon. Her son couldn't even look his father in the eye.

"If you aren't hungry, go to your room, so I don't have to watch you be wasteful," his father added. There was still some power in his voice, though; it was mostly fueled by annoyance. Most of John Morlock's actions were elicited from the same driving forces. If the driving force wasn't insanity, it was annoyance.

Paul went to get up, mostly as an act of defiance - a reaction to his father's bitter tone. He never lifted his gaze. His head hung down as he did so. His back side ached, and the throbbing resonated throughout his body. He didn't want to be at the table with his father.

His mother glared at him almost as if trying to say that getting up would not make the situation better. "Sit down, Paul," she said. "We need to talk."

"About what?" he asked, trying not to sound guilty. He couldn't remember doing anything wrong, anything that would require a talk. It was bad enough he had gotten the whacking of his life for nothing at all.

"Are you feeling alright lately, son?" his father asked. The anger from before dissipated and sincere concern replaced it.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Paul answered meekly, but still did not lift his head. He sat back down and began to eat his dinner without a fuss. It wasn't that he wasn't hungry; he was just sick of potatoes. He was sick of the cabbage, too, but not as much as he was sick of the potatoes. He sure as hell wasn't fine, either.

"Paul, do you not like your sheet, honey?" his mother asked sweetly.

"I like my sheets just fine, Mom." He couldn't rationalize why she had asked that question, but mostly he was day dreaming about how he'd get his ax.

She paused as if formulating her next question carefully. She decided to get straight to the point. "Then why do you keep putting it over the mirror?"

The question caught him by surprise, but at least he knew he wasn't in any trouble that would require a talk. Most talks seemed to be followed by ... _go in the back and find yourself a switch, boy, a big one if you know what's good for ya. _ He winced at the thought then shrugged at his mother's question, trying to buy time, but he too decided to be direct.

"I like the sheets just fine. I like the sheets; it's the mirror I don't like."

His father gave his mother a confused glance - the kind of glance a man gives when his eight year old is talking nonsense. Also the kind of glance John Morlock shouldn't have been giving considering his rants about the sewers and mindlessly beating his son hours before. "What's wrong with you're mirror, Paul?" he asked.

"Nothing, Dad; I just don't like it. Can I go to my room now?" He pushed his empty plate towards his mother as if it were a ticket out of the dining room. His parents nodded, still confused. Paul still did not lift his head; his eyes were fixed to what was below him.

Katherine sighed; she rested her chin on her hands and glanced over at her husband. She considered being the only sane person in the house, but reminded herself that Paul was only a child - a child going through a lot. Her husband ate his meal with vigor, never uttering a word or an apology to her for the afternoon. She would ask him about the sewers again, but she knew he'd say he didn't remember.

"John, you need to go upstairs and talk to your son."

"He'll forget it happened by tomorrow."

"He'll still have cuts on his back tomorrow; he won't be forgetting it too soon. You need to go talk to him. He won't even look at you for Christ's sake. And god have mercy on you if you lay so much as a hand on him because I won't. If you do, I might just leave you, John. I'll take Paul with me to live with my sister in Lewiston, and you won't see us anymore."

"Katherine, stop. I swear I won't touch him. What's wrong with him? What's wrong with the mirror?"

"I don't know, John, maybe he can't look at himself anymore after what you've done to him! Go talk to him. Have a heart to heart. See if he tells you what's wrong."

Moments later his father came to his bedroom door. Paul heard them speaking through the floor boards, so he was expectant. It was custom that the lights in the house went out after dinner, ending with the kitchen light after his mother did the dishes. Electricity had to be paid for, so there was no use in wasting it. As he lay in bed, he saw the glow of the candlelight his father held through the crack under his door. John knocked twice and then let himself in.

The sheet lay lifelessly over the mirror as it had before. John sat down on the boy's bed and pulled his son into his lap. "Come now, Paul, tell me what's really wrong," he said. His voice had no signs of anger, just a tinge of defeat. The child studied him carefully, trying to see if he could trust him or if he'd get another whacking out of the deal.

"Dad, do you believe in Mary Worth?" A chill raced down Paul's spine as he said the name. He said it out loud, would she come for him? He look towards the mirror for signs that the sheet might shift. His father stroked the boy's head lovingly in an attempt to redeem the pain he had caused.

"I don't know a Mary Worth."

"That's because she died," Paul said flatly, still eyeing the mirror.

"Then there ain't any sense in knowing her, now is there?"

"She lives in the mirror, dad."

"Paul, that ain't nothing but a story to scare young kids."

"How about Mary Jensen? Do you know of her? Butch says she's from Lewiston. Remember when we use to go visit Aunt Sue in Lewiston?"

"Sure do, those were good times, but I still don't know who this Mary is."

"She's a ghost, Dad. You have to go into a dark room with a mirror and say," he paused, "I can't say it. Anyway, then she comes out of the mirror and takes your eyes and kills ya." He had all the innocence and conviction of a frightened child in his voice, and his father knew to handle the situation with understanding. Yelling at him wouldn't change much.

"So that's why you keep putting the sheet over the mirror? You afraid she'll come and getcha?"

Paul shrugged, feeling a twinge of shame. He hadn't summoned her, but late at night he'd worry just thinking the name would be enough to call her out. Late at night the mirror showed mysterious forms. Late at night, he thought, there'd be no better place for a ghost to live - except, maybe the house on Neibolt Street.

"Tell you what, son, you tell me what it is you have to say to make her come out, and I'll prove to you there's no ghost in the mirror."

"And what if there is?"

"If there is I'll kill her again!" he shook the boy, giving him some reassurance.

"I still don't wanna say it; can I write it for you?" Paul asked mindlessly. His father's hands on his arm were rough; it reminded him of the afternoon. Paul smiled for a moment as a thought occurred to him. It wasn't a particularly nice thought. What if Bloody Mary took his father? Could they be better off without him? Of course they wouldn't, but Paul savored the thought for a moment anyway.

"Sure," his father answered, pulling a stub of an old pencil out of his shirt pocket and reaching for the school note book on Paul's night stand. The boy scribbled on the bottom of a written page of elementary math problems.

"Bloody Mary," his father read off the page.

"Ayuh, ya have to say it while spinning in front of the mirror."

"Ok," he said, putting Paul down on his feet, "how about ya go take that sheet off the mirror, and I'll do the chant. There's nothing to be afraid of." he reassured.

Paul gulped as he turned to face the mirror. His feet dragged like those of a prisoner on his walk to his execution. He pulled the sheet off the offensive object and hopped back onto the bed, which he unconsciously thought to be a safe distance away. His father got up and blew out the candle that he had placed on the night stand.

"You sit on the bed, and I'll do the chant." Paul nodded at his father nervously, and pulled his knees to his chest.

His father sighed and began spinning and chanting. Paul counted with his hands over his eyes to shield him from the terror he might encounter. Eleven Bloody Marys, he counted, on the twelfth he cried out.

"Daddy! No!"

But John Morlock continued his final chant. He stopped spinning, but instead of facing the mirror he faced his son on the bed, who was now in tears. Lightning crashed outside where it had still been raining. Thunder roared followed by another bolt of lightning that illuminated the mirror, but the mirror only reflected an image of father and son.

It was a disturbing image of father and son for John, who turned to see his child in possession of an ominous looking ax and a sinister smile. He gasped and quickly spun to see his son sitting calmly on the bed.

"You ok, dad?" Paul asked, wiping the few stray tears from his face as he pulled back his covers and got under them.

"Fine, Paul. Do you believe me now, son? There's no such thing as Bloody Mary."

Paul nodded. "Dad, can you take me to see the circus?"

"We'll see about that, it's not for another month."

"Not this year, it looks like it came early."

"Is that so?"

"Ayuh. There was a clown outside my window before you came upstairs."

"What was a clown doing in our backyard?"

"I dunno, dad, but he waved to me when I saw him. He said he could float, and he said if I came and saw him I could float too. He also said I should bring you with me and we'll all float."

"Is that so? Well, I'll tell you what; you go to bed and we'll talk about the circus tomorrow morning."

"Ok, dad." Paul turned on his side and closed his eyes.

"Goodnight. And Paul, I promise I'll never lay a hand on you again."

"Promise?"

"Do you wanna know what love is?" Paul nodded. "It's doing right by your family. So, yes, Paul, I promise."

"Even when I'm bad?"

"I'll let your mother handle you when you're bad." Paul smiled and allowed himself to drift off. He had decided he never really wanted his father to die. However, what Paul wanted didn't matter as he'd soon find out.

John walked over to the window, and looked out into the cloudy night's sky. Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, and illuminated the back yard. All there was to see was grass and the wooden garden shed, which was in need of a fixing. There weren't an circus clowns, just as there shouldn't be. A chill raced up John Morlock's spine.

_  
We all float down here, John. Dontcha wanna float? Dontcha wanna?  
_

The odd thing was that John Morlock was filled with an odd sort of regret, or perhaps an unwarranted dissatisfaction. Something in him wanted the chant to work. Something in him that was sinister and selfish - a weakness that was taking over. It wasn't a mirror ghost that brought it out in him; it was there already and deeply rooted.


	5. Chapter 4: Pennywise, the Dollar Fool

_It's raining, it's pouring…_

The girls were playing jump rope again, even as the rain poured down. Three witches, he thought to himself again. Only this time they were three little witches in hospital johnnies. Their shoes were missing, and their bare feet splashed into the shallow puddles beneath them. The rope picked up water as it came down and threw drops in Paul's direction as it came up.

_You're old man ain't snoring._

It didn't take long for him to understand it was a dream, not long at all. He resigned himself to it. His father proved to him what he was too scared to prove to himself. There was no such thing as Bloody Mary. So why was he still scared?

_He slit his throat. Paul, please don't gloat._

That's not the rhyme, he thought to himself as he tuned in to their chant when he heard his name in the words. In an attempt to ignore them, he walked over to the sewer to inspect. His ax wasn't there anymore.

_He won't be alive in the morning._

He turned back to the girls, not really wanting to be bothered with them. He tried to piece together the rhyme he'd just heard them sing. A dark figure appeared behind Rena's friend, who held the right end of the rope. Paul walked closer to get a better look.

She was smaller than the girls jumping rope, who didn't seem to acknowledge his presence as he approached. Her dirty tattered clothes stood in contrast to their pristine white hospital johnnies. She sat on the curb crying; her face was buried in her small hands.

In her lap was his ax. The raindrops sparkled on the metal head, as he got closer. He determined she'd be about his age as he stood in front of her.

"Hey, is that from the sewer?" He asked calmly, and her sobbing ceased.

She girl got to her feet, holding the ax, but never lifted her head. Her unkempt brown hair hung over her pale face as she took a step towards him. Paul took a step back to keep a safe distance; after all she was holding an ax. She stopped after another step towards him and held out the ax in his direction.

"Are you giving it to me?" he asked cautiously.

"Why, yes," she said sweetly, "Dontcha want it?" Her head shot up to face him. He gasped and fell backwards as he caught a glimpse of her eyeless sockets. Paul crawled backwards, his aching backside slid roughly against the pavement.

"Dontcha want it?" she asked again, but the innocent voice of a little girl was gone and replaced with that of the clown from the backyard. She began walking towards him again. He tried to scream but the sound wouldn't leave his throat; he panted as he tried to back away.

"We all float, Paul. Dontcha wanna float?" She took another step towards him, still extending the ax in his direction, presenting it like it was the body of Christ at Sunday mass. He stared deep into the gaping holes that marred her face; blood was dripping down her cheeks from them, but deep in the chasms he saw what appeared to be something silver reflecting light. Deadlight.

He struggled to his feet to run, but by the time he stood up the girl had disappeared. He looked around him. The other girls were gone too. It was only Paul in the street as the rain poured down. In the distance he heard a bell ringing.

Paul turned to the direction of his house, where the noise was coming from. He walked closer and it seemed to get louder. It stopped abruptly and he paused for a moment, waiting to hear it start again. The next noise that came from his house was a gut-wrenching shriek.

"Mommy!" he awoke with a jolt. The shrieking didn't stop; it was coming from the bathroom. He got out of bed and ran to find his mother.

The light from the bathroom poured out the wide open door. His mother's screaming continued. Paul approached with caution, not sure if he should go in or not.

Upon seeing his father's body in the tub Paul's knees buckled under him, and he dropped to the floor. He began to gag at the site. There was so much blood. His mother kept shrieking and crying as she tried to handle the body. It looked like she was choking him but Paul understood she was trying to stop the bleeding from his throat.

Pools of blood and water gathered around Paul's pajama clad legs, and finally he managed to stifle a cry. His mother's attention turned from her dead husband to her son and his pathetic pleas for his dad, who was lying dead in the tub with his throat slashed open. She lifted Paul off the wet floor and carried him out of the house into the pouring rain as she continued sobbing with him.

The Morlocks no longer had a telephone, the always had to use the Davenport's phone. This night was no different, though, the circumstances were dramatically worse.

The Derry Police Department arrived to clear the mess and remove the body. They ruled it out to be a suicide, which weren't uncommon. John Morlock had lost his job that morning, something his wife didn't know until that night as they wheeled the body out in a black bag. Mr. Davenport knew about it since his brother worked with John and was also laid off. He made a statement to the sheriff.

All along Paul had been crying out to the cops, "Bloody Mary killed him! Bloody Mary killed my dad! There was a mirror! She came out of the mirror in the bathroom and killed him!"

The cops tried to ignore him as he grabbed onto their shirtsleeves for their attention. A younger officer finally stopped and picked him up.

"Listen, little guy, I'm sorry about your dad." Paul shivered in his arms, cold from the rain and from crying too much. "You're father left a note. He lost his job; he must have been very upset and didn't know what to do."

"What did the note say?" Paul asked between sobs.

"It said, ' I'm pennywise, so pennywise and a silver dollar foolish'."

_I'm Pennywise._


	6. Chapter 5: Insanity Reflected

"It smells like death," Paul stated flatly as he lay in his mother's bed. He was referring to the suitcase laid out by his feet that had been filled with moth balls for the past few years.

"Don't say things like that, Paul. Try to rest until Mr. Keene drops off your medicine. And don't you forget to thank him, he's been very kind to us."

"It's only cranberry juice."

"What makes you say that?"

"That's what it is, I just know it." Paul clutched his stomach and kicked the suitcase off the bed with a loud whining noise.

"Don't whine like that, Paul, you brought this upon yourself. I wish you didn't have to see all that, but you can't avoid going to the bathroom. It's all gone now."

"Dad's gone, but she's still there. I know she's still there just like I know the medicine Mr. Keene is going to give me is cranberry juice."

"Paul, stop it!" Katherine yelled, grabbing the boy by his shoulders. "Promise me this will all end when we go to live with Aunt Sue. Paul, promise me."

"I think we'll be safer there. I think she's just part of Derry, so maybe she can't follow us."

Katherine sighed, defeated, she picked up the suitcase from the floor and put it back on the bed. She had heard enough about Bloody Mary. Paul stared at her, awaiting some response. When he didn't get any he kicked the suitcase off the bed again. Oh, the things he could get away with now that his father was gone. Katherine didn't even say anything to him about it. She just picked it up and began to put clothes into it.

It was the sensible choice to sell the house. They'd have money to live off of in Lewiston, so they wouldn't put her sister off by borrowing. Not that Susan would mind, she prospered from not marrying. She had the house in Lewiston and still had the summer house out on the TR near Dark Score Lake, which she inherited when their parents died since the other sisters were married and had husbands to support them.

Katherine dwelled on the thought of living with her sister, and decided it'd be good for all of them. Sue would have company, and she would have help raising Paul now that she was a widow. There would also be more activities for Paul in the summer at the TR. They had baseball games on Fridays that were free to watch. Paul liked baseball, and she considered that when he got older he could probably play for one of the teams and in the meanwhile make some friends, something he lacked in Derry.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. It was Norbert Keen, as she had expected. Mr. Keene owned the Centre Street Drug Store and from time to time he was very charitable to families in need. He was barely into his thirties and well known for telling stories. He had seen the Bradley Gang in 1929 and all the youngsters wanted to know about it. There was something else he saw, too. Something much worse.

Paul followed his mother to the door, his bladder infection didn't seem to be ailing him. He wanted to hear about gangsters and ax murders. Katherine let Mr. Keene into the living room.

"Allow me to run upstairs and fetch some money. I can't tell you how grateful I am that you dropped this off."

"Don't worry about the money, it don't cost much."

"No, I insist, and for bringing this over here yourself."

"We all know what you've been through, Mrs. Morlock. I can't accept anything."

"If she pays you can you tell me more about the Bradley Gang and that guy named Claude?" Paul asked enthusiastically.

"Paul Morlock, go to your room. You'll take your medicine and go to bed."

"You promised me a rhyme, mommy."

"So I did," her voice softened.

"A new one!"

"I know. I have one for you," she said.

_Wee Willie Winkie_

_Runs through the town,_

_Upstairs and downstairs_

_In his nightgown._

_Rapping at the windows,_

_Crying through the lock,_

_"Are the children all in bed?_

_For it's now eight o'clock."_

"It's not eight yet, mom."

"No, it isn't, but when it is he'll come rapping at your window." Paul paused and pondered the rhyme for a moment.

"Is Wee Willie Winkie a clown?" he asked.

"I suppose he could be, why do you ask?" Katherine never thought about it much but it sure sounded like a clown name. Norbert Keene's attention turned to the boy.

"Well, because the night dad died there was a clown in the backyard around eight. Dad said he'd take me to the circus to see him, but that was before …" Paul stopped himself.

Mr. Keene's gaze was fixed on Paul. He shuddered suddenly and excused himself. It was late and it'd be best if he was on his way.

"Mr. Keene!" Paul called out as the man went to exit the door.

"You know the man you told us that story about, his name was Claude, he had an ax?"

"Yeah, what about?"

"Do you think he was a hero or a villain? Cause I hear that union guys are good and if there were one to protect my dad he might still be here. How do I join a union?"

Norbert Keene laughed, the nervousness in his face seemed to dissipate. "Claude Heroux was a maniac, he's not exactly a great example for union leaders. But unions are good, when you're older it'd be wise to join one." On that note Norbert Keene was out the door.

Paul's thoughts drifted back to Lizzie Borden. He thought about her ax. Claude Heroux had an ax too, and that appealed to him. He'd heard about Claude Heroux and the massacre at the Sleepy Silver Dollar when he was visiting Centre Street drugs with his mother. Butch Bowers was there along with a friend, they were there for sweets and a story and Paul joined in to hear it. Paul didn't know what a union was or how it worked, but he knew Claude lead one and that seemed admirable - at least to Paul.

Lizzie Borden lost her intrigue after a while. Paul reckoned she might have not killed her parents after all, but he still wondered who did. Besides Lizzie was child's play compared to Claude Heroux, a union ringleader who butchered a bunch of people in cold blood. Where Lizzie Borden got away with a bad reputation Claude was lynched for his crimes in 1905.

His mind drifted back to the ax in the sewer and the little girl in his dream. He wanted to give her a few wacks. He wanted to hack away at her until she stopped haunting him at night. Yeah, he'd give Bloody Mary a few wacks. And if Wee Willie Winkie tried to tell him to go to bed he'd handle him, too. He wasn't sleepy anyway. But he was desperate - desperate for an item that was just out of his reach.

He suppressed his desperation. He drank his doctor prescribed cranberry juice and took an aspirin. His mother put him in bed and he pretended to sleep, but he couldn't sleep. When she finished packing some bags and went to bed herself, Paul got up and headed into the kitchen. He wasn't hungry, but there was something there he wanted.

He pulled a pack of matches and a half melted candle and placed it near the doorway. Paul crept back to his room and got his shoes and a pair of socks his mother had just mended for him. It was raining out again, but it was still hot, so he didn't mind. _Dontcha want it?_ The words echoed in his head. Paul decided he didn't want it, he needed it.

He left the door unlocked and stepped into the rain. The Derry Standpipe was a fifteen minute walk but that was the only way into the sewers. He checked the grate outside his house. It was still there gleaming in the moonlight.

He stood in the street, getting soaked from head to toe. He admired the object in the sewer, it was glowing now. The metal head of the ax was glowing. His green eyes were drawn to it. The haunting silver glow called to him. Below him he thought he heard a scream but he couldn't be sure. Something in the sewer cast a shadow, but the reflective surface of the ax glowed brighter.

The screams from the sewer grew louder. They echoed through the tunnels. It made Paul's skin crawl, but he paid it no mind. The light that appeared was mesmerizing. It was coming closer to him. Brighter now but still obstructed. The reflection from the head of the ax threw a beam of the bright white light into Paul's eyes and he fell back onto the cement away from the grate. A foreign feeling washed over him and he couldn't quiet understand it. Deadlights.

Paul got up to his knees and looked back into the grate. A large black mass moved under him. He couldn't see the ax anymore. He gasped. And suddenly Paul Morlock understood why his father wanted him to stay away from the sewers.

He ran back into his house and shivered in the living room until morning. In the morning they were leaving. In the morning he'd be safe and on his way to Lewiston. There he'd play baseball at the TR and go swimming in the lake. Aunt Sue would buy him sweets and maybe she'd buy him a bike. And in Lewiston he would die. He'd die in a tank surrounded by flames, and the last thing Paul Morlock would hear was a bell. A death bell. And the last thing he would see was a light he could not enter.


	7. Chapter 6: Dearly Departing

Paul awoke to the knocking at his front door, which he was consequently laying next to

Paul awoke to the knocking at his front door, which he was consequently laying next to. The candle from the night before burnt out and the wax was melted over itself and in danger of dripping on to the wood panel floor. He couldn't remember falling asleep but his gut reaction was to hide the candle under the couch.

He got up to answer the door before his mother could make it down the stairs. Aunt Sue stood at the doorstep in what appeared to be her Sunday best. She was apparently unfazed by the heat as she wore a fur shawl over her shoulders. Paul stared at it with curiosity; its head was still intact and he had an impulse to want to play with it. He looked up at her with a smile gracing his lips and she pulled him into a hug. For a moment he felt like she had come to save him from Derry and its demons.

The fur brushed his cheek, causing him to look up into the furry face on her shoulder. A sudden chill ran up his spine. He looked into the socket of the fox's missing eye. Its claws were well noted too. The eyeless void made it look dead but that didn't stop him from thinking it could still leap onto him. His green eyes matched the one glass eye it had left. What would stop it from taking one of his with its grimy little paws graced with sharp nails? Fear took over his body and he backed away with the thought that her shawl could be Bloody Mary reincarnated. It just had to be, and she was here to take his eyes to replace the ones missing from the hollow sockets in her head. Susan looked at him funny but was instantly distracted by Katherine coming down to greet her. They exchanged hugs, followed by Katherine crying over all that had happened. Paul wanted to care, he really did, but all he could think of was that the devil lived in his aunt's fur shawl and that it should be discarded immediately. Where was the ax? He wanted to give the shawl a few whacks. Why didn't he get the ax? He couldn't remember.

Paul snuck away to the kitchen and let the two sisters exchange pleasantries and sympathies. He sat at the table patiently, and wondered if his mother would cook him an egg for breakfast before they left for Lewiston. He could hear his mother sobbing to her sister, and he suddenly understood how much she was holding in since his father died. The two women followed him into the kitchen. Thankfully, Susan had left the shawl in the other room. Paul pictured it hung over the arm of the couch glaring in the direction of the kitchen. His mother went to the fridge and began packing all she could save into a basket; she was still wiping away a few stray tears.

Aunt Sue sat across from him at the table and laid her purse down in front of her. Her posture was poised and almost arrogant, legs crossed at the knee with her hands resting on her lap. Paul took in the differences; this was not the aunt he remembered as a child.

"So I hear you like baseball…" she began to engage in small talk.

"Ayuh. I'd like to play it some day, but I don't have a bat, just that big stick in the yard and you can't hit the ball with it that well. Butch Bowers had a bat, but his mom took it away from him because he was using it to hit the dog. Now he has a stick like mine that he hits the dog with. I reckon his mom will take that away from him soon too."

"That Butch Bowers doesn't sound like a very nice boy to be friends with."

"Oh, no, he's not my friend, just someone who bullies all the kids at school. One time Butch asked Rena Davenport if he could look up her skirt, she was so scared of what he might do if she didn't, so she…"

"Paul, dear, would you like some breakfast before we leave?" his mother cut in. Paul nodded. "Boiled or scrambled?" Katherine asked as she began unwrapping a plate and a pan she had packed into boxes.

"Scrambled," he answered then turned his attention back to his aunt. "I wasn't there but I heard she even took off her bloomers," Paul finished with a laugh.

"Paul Morlock! That's inappropriate! Apologize to your aunt."

"Oh Katherine, it's fine he's just a child."

"It's ok mom, Butch says girls take off their bloomers in the movies all the time. Butch says he sees a lot of movies with his dad where the girls take off their bloomers and the boys take off their underpants and then they rub against each other. Butch likes to tell stories though cause I don't think his dad can really afford to go to the movies, but he says they sneak in."

"Paul, enough!" Katherine shouted as she put the plate with the egg in front of her son. "Eat your egg and then start bringing the suitcases down while I clean up. Sue would you like anything?"

"Oh no, dear, I ate before I left Lewiston."

"That was four hours ago, Susan."

"It's alright, we'll all have lunch when we get back."

Paul stabbed at the egg in his plate. Remembering what his father always said about being wasteful, he forked it into his mouth and finished it without a fuss. He then sat there clanging the fork against his glass of water.

"Paul, dear, why don't you go upstairs and make sure there isn't anything we forgot while your aunt and I bring the suitcases out to the car." Katherine took the dish and fork away from him. Paul nodded and went back up to his old room after retrieving his baseball stick from the backyard.

The room looked the same but unlived in, all that made it his was taken out of it. The bed was bare and so were the walls and night tables. He closed the door behind him and sighed. The mirror stood there facing him. He knew to keep a close eye on it as he made his way around the room looking for things they might have missed in the drawers and under the bed. His baseball stick was still in hand. Through the corner of his eye he thought he saw something move, but he couldn't be sure, regardless he kept watching it. When all the nooks and crannies were inspected and nothing was found he sat on his bed content, stick in hand, and facing the mirror.

Deep in thought, he slapped the stick against his palm. He heard his mother and his aunt bustling about below him. He looked to his feet then brought his gaze back to the mirror. He thought of his father and the last time he saw him alive. Paul got up and drew the shades, and pushed the mirror in front of the window to keep out as much light as possible. The room was as dim as it could be during that hour of the day. He hit the stick against the mattress as hard as he could and took a few ruthless swings at the air around him.

"Bloody Mary." He said once and spun around. "Bloody Mary." Paul took a breath and then another spin. After the third he felt braver. "Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary." Twelve times he called her name, then he waited – stick in hand, and ready to take on whatever appeared. Paul's face was red with anger and he wanted revenge. He wanted his father back. He'd take the beatings with the switch or the belt or whatever was in store for him if he could only have his father back.

"Hell Mary full of disgrace the lord has abandoned thee!" Paul called into the mirror. He banged the stick against the wooden floor.

"Paul! What are you doing up there! Come down here, we're getting ready to leave!" Katherine called from the bottom of the stairs.

Without thinking he raised the baseball stick over his shoulder and swung in the direction of the mirror.

"Paul!"

He stopped suddenly with the stick inches away from the glass.

"Coming mom!"

Paul sat in the front seat of his aunt's black Ford automobile as his mother and aunt loaded the last of the baggage into the back. He tried to control his impulses to honk the horn. He still had the stick in hand. A wave of dizziness fell upon him and the pain in his lower abdomen returned. Paul groaned, shuffled himself to the window, and dropped the stick into the backseat. The frustration from before seemed to slip away. Mrs. Davenport crossed the street and was now talking to his mother and his aunt. He laid his head up against the door with his ear to the open window. Eyes closed and hands clutching his gut, he began to listen in.

It was a tragedy, that's what they always called it when a child died. Around the block, near the corner of Neibolt Street, just a short walk from the creepy house the kids would always talk about, a body was found. What was left of the body belonged to ten year old Lucile Kingston; the right arm, right leg, and the small portion of her skull that were missing now belonged to something else and were in the process of being digested. Those who'd hear about it would blame the depression as to why she was out so late at night. There was a letter in the kitchen addressed to her mom. She left at night to join the circus, she heard they gave good meals to the carnies, and it'd be best for the family if they had one less mouth to feed. That's what she wrote; Paul's father had thought that too. She wrote she saw a clown stand by her window at night, and she's decided to follow him back to where the circus is camped out. She ended her letter saying if things got better for the economy her parents could pick her up at the Fryeburg Fair.

Another pain came and went, and when his mind was clear Paul remembered something of the night before. He had heard her screams. Through the sewers they echoed the night before and in the car that morning they replayed themselves in his head. Paul's hands flew from his pelvis up to cup his ears until the shrill noise would stop. For a moment he thought his ears would bleed causing him to let out a loud screech of his own.

When his eyes finally fluttered open and the pain subsided he was greeted by with worried expressions on the faces of the three women who were chatting outside the car. He groaned as his mother pulled him into a sitting position. Paul's face was pale and it seemed the fever from the infection was making a come back. Katherine fussed over him, unsure of what to do next.

"Maybe I should call a doctor before we leave, Sue."

"Nonsense, we'll take him to the hospital in Lewiston. Gottreich Hospital has an outstanding reputation. Besides, we should leave before dark."

Katherine nodded, sliding into the car next to her son. Susan took the driver's seat on the other side of him; thankfully she had left that awful shawl in the backseat with the luggage. It was pinned under a suitcase and Paul was assured it wouldn't be moving anytime soon. Paul rested his head of dark curls on his mother's shoulder and closed his eyes. The fever made sleep come easily for the next three hours of the trip into Lewiston. Though an inexplicable feeling in him made him wish they were going to the TR instead. Perhaps it was the novelty of baseball, but mostly the feeling that something evil lurked there too.

Mary, Mary, quite contrary

How does your garden grow?


	8. Chapter 7: Off to a Bad Start

Lewiston, Maine was a town with a good reputation

Lewiston, Maine was a town with a good reputation. It was an all American kind of place, much like Derry. And just like almost every other American city it too fell victim to the depression. Paul's memories of a distant summer, now passed, were enough to shine some light on the new life he and his mother were about to embark on. Even through the haziness of the fever, daydreams of baseball and swimming in the lake saturated his thoughts on the drive to the hospital.

There were smells Paul attributed to certain places, like the smell in the barbershop or the fish market. The smell in Gottreich Hospital was new to his senses, but not a one to be soon forgotten – a chemical clean. It was a smell that elicited a feeling too, only found in hospitals, it could make a person feel sick and safe at the same time. His mother, accompanied by a young nurse, laid Paul down on a brown leather reclining examination chair with a white sheet haphazardly draped over it.

"The doctor will be with you in a moment, he's just completing an experiment in the Pain Room," the nurse informed them as she took her leave.

Paul didn't like the sound of "experiment in the Pain Room", he didn't like it one bit, and he certainly never thought he'd end up being one. In the distance, perhaps down the hall, he heard a bell ringing. He closed his eyes and tried to determine in which direction the sound was coming from, but it was muffled by cries and the general bustle of the hospital's hallways. Minutes later he heard people talking outside the door of his room. It was the same nurse, who spoke to his mother earlier, her cheery disposition was well intact, and also a man who had a slight accent.

"How did the experiment progress, Dr. Gottreich?" the nurse asked.

"Rubbish," he said, but it didn't damper his mood, "but as my uncle use to tell me when I began my medical practice, no great thing is created suddenly." The doctor gave a good-tempered laugh and entered the room. Despite the vigor in his voice and the youthful sparkle in his beady eyes, Dr. Gottreich was old. His jaw sagged and puckered around his grey teeth as his wrinkled and age spotted skin pulled back to reveal an almost sinister smile. He approached Paul and his mother with his right arm extended, ready to exchange pleasantries. Paul wondered if that was how Lucile Kingston approached the thing in the sewer before it ripped her arms and legs off.

Dr. Gottreich wore a white lab coat over his mint green scrubs, upon close inspection Paul noted the fresh blood stains on the green fabric. Gottreich shook hands with Katherine, and then Paul. He looked at the charts handed to him by the nurse for a brief moment and then looked up to Paul.

"And what seems to be the problem with young Paul here?" his voice was pleasant and jolly and any bad thoughts Paul had of him seemed to dissipate for the moment.

"I believe he has a bladder infection from not wanting to go to the bathroom. That's the conclusion the doctor in Derry came to. He's been given medicine but it hasn't seemed to help. Then again I haven't been making sure he's been taking it properly."

"Mom, it's cranberry juice." Dr. Gottreich flashed him a smile and a wink; his mother just ignored him.

"No worries, Mrs. Morlock, we'll take good care of him here. If you can just step outside I can assess the problem and we'll deal with it accordingly."

"Why can't my mom stay in the room?

"You're a big boy now, Paul, and big boys don't need they're mommies in the room."

Paul liked the idea of being a big boy. He was always a small boy back home in Derry, one of the youngest in his class and at times the skinniest too. Butch Bowers was a big boy, and Paul had always wanted the respect Butch got from striking fear into the little hearts of the younger, smaller, weaker children. Paul never did fear Butch, but he did revere him, and in a way he wanted to be him.

Gottreich flashed him another smile as his mother left the room. Paul's body tensed up, he couldn't help but feel something horrible was going to happen, something awful, like a shot, but maybe something worse, though he couldn't think of anything worse. He wondered what the experiment in the Pain Room was.

"Don't look so nervous, boy, I'm not going to hurt you. My job is to cure pain," the doctor purred as he brought the stethoscope to Paul's chest. The coldness of the small metal palette against his skin caused him to flinch.

"Take deep breaths," Gottreich said, moving the stethoscope along. Gottreich's other hand was placed lightly on Paul's thigh, in a strange but comforting gesture. Paul didn't move; he tried to stay distracted staring into the mirrored lens that Gottreich wore on his forehead. He could see himself in it at the angle he was looking, but when he studied it closer he could see someone else in it too. Behind him to his right stood a small girl in a tattered calico Johnny and what appeared to be a large mass of fur.

Paul gasped and swiftly turned to look behind him. Nothing.

"What seems to be the matter, boy?" Gottreich asked while digging in his pocket for a tongue depressor.

"Bloody Mary," he whispered, bringing his hands to cover his eyes. He didn't want to see her any more. Paul felt the chills set in again, along with the feverish haze. The room faded to black, and not long after so did the memory of Dr. Gottreich and his mirrored lens.


	9. Chapter 8: Lucky Number 13

Lucky number thirteen – that's how it was labeled in his head

Lucky number thirteen – that's how it was labeled in his head. If he thought of it any other way he'd be regressing, and he had already come such a long way in kicking the superstition. _ Step on a crack, break your mother's back__, he thought as he carefully avoided the cracks between each plank of wood set in front of him on the wide dock of a street that would take him to the other side of the TR. The baseball fields were at the other end, and at the rate he was going he'd never get a seat to watch. Friday night was baseball night in the TR, and it was usually Paul's favorite night of the week. However, that particular night in August 1937 was the thirteenth of the month, and Paul himself was thirteen years of age. A few boys sped by him, and two older men cut him off as well. Paul couldn't risk it though. She was the only parent he had left. Furthermore, he had lost the other to a superstition that turned out to be true._

Out of frustration he shuffled his way to the side of the street and into the wet grassy area. His shoes would get muddy and wet but he wouldn't miss the game. He began running and soon after he passed the boys who got ahead just moments before. He passed Sara Laughs and the Washburn house and several of the other more prominent establishments in Dark Score Lake. Friday the thirteenth or not, he wouldn't miss out on his game. The stands at the field were full but he didn't have a problem finding a seat.

The game was in its first inning and the crowd was already wild. There was no home team and the players switched around a lot so Paul never did have a favorite. Two rows below him sat Max Devore, a well-known character on TR-90. In 1933, around the time Paul and his mother moved to Lewiston it was rumored Max Devore had set a fire in TR-90 that killed several people. Of course that was never proven or the lively twenty-four year old man wouldn't have been sitting in front of him. Long after Paul's death in 1939 Max Devore would become the multimillionaire owner of a computer company called "Visions". Years after that at the ripe old age of eighty-five, at which point he'd be bound to a wheelchair and an oxygen tank, he'd kill himself by suffocation. Paul stared at the back of his head briefly. "Sometimes a guy's got to set the world on fire," he thought to himself. A mischievous smile of amusement played on his lips as he went back to watching the game.

Baseball was a rush and the game left him feeling content as walked back home. His mother would be waiting up for him and he'd have to have another talk with his aunt about when she'd buy him a bat, so when he grew a few more inches he could start playing instead of just watching. Katherine warned him that Aunt Sue was a penny pincher and that she only promised him such luxuries to keep his favor, and that she wouldn't really ever buy it for him, but Paul was still hopeful. Susan definitely knew how to spend money on herself, but the two things Paul wanted most: a bike and a bat; he had never received, nor would he ever receive them.

The night was dark and all around him on his way home he could hear the people from the game still cheering. Paul was quiet, content but thinking. Thinking of how nice it would have been if his father were still around. They could go to the games together like how some of the other boys did. Most of the boys went with their friends, but some went with their dads. Paul had neither to go with.

A small, ten year old, carrot top shuffled by. He grazed Paul's arm in his hurry to get home. The boy's lack of apology infuriated him as he snapped out of his thoughts. Paul didn't hesitate for a moment before throwing his foot out and bringing the red haired child to the ground.

"Watch where you're going, boy!" he yelled down, admiring his handy work as the child looked up with glassy eyes that were on the verge of filling with tears. It yielded satisfaction and pity at the same time. The glamorization of Butch Bowers lifting up girl's skirts created the satisfaction, the tears in the kid's eyes took it away, but it was too late to take any of it back.

"Please don't hurt me! I need to get back before the scarecrow gets me! It's Friday the thirteenth," the boy sniveled, inspecting his dirty scraped knees.

"I know what day it is!" Paul snapped, remembering how he counted the chants to his father's death. Lucky number thirteen, how could he forget what day it was.

"Please don't beat me up today! You can beat me up tomorrow, there won't be a scarecrow tomorrow."

"What?" Paul asked confused, he didn't really want to beat the kid up anyway. Kicking him down was enough.

"The scarecrow in the field. On full moons and Friday the thirteenth it comes down off it's post and kills someone who's walking home alone at night."

Paul looked over into the field, sure enough the scarecrow in the cornfields looked menacing enough. He didn't want to acknowledge such tall tales anymore but he couldn't help but think the worst. He looked down at the kid and extended his hand to help him up. The child looked wary of his intentions but took his offer and got to his feet.

"Come on, I'll walk you home, kid." Paul faked the annoyance in his voice, but deep down he was actually happy to have someone to walk with. "So have you ever seen the scarecrow get off its post?"

"Ayuh, I've seen the post without the scarecrow. My sister told me the story though, and my sister don't lie."

"Why ain't your sister walking you home now then?"

"She's waiting on the porch back home. She don't like baseball, but she does like them boys who play it. Dad says it ain't nothing but trouble to let her go down to the field with all them boys down there."

"Next summer I'm gonna be playing baseball down there in the field, so you'll have to come and watch me. I'm gonna hit the ball right over the fence, just you watch!" Paul started excitedly. "My aunt says she'll buy me a bat next summer. It's going to be Bee's Knees! I'm Paul, by the way. And sorry I kicked ya, but you really shoulda said sorry."

"I sure am sorry. My name is Benjamin Thomason the third, but you can just call me Benny. Maybe we can be friends, the big kids wouldn't beat me up if I were friends with a baseball player."

"Sure, maybe, but I'm only here in the summer. I go back to Lewiston in a few weeks, but I wish I could stay here all year." Thoughts of the scarecrow had been forgotten until the introductory chatter melted into a short silence and rustling was heard in the corn maze behind them.

"Hey Paul, did you hear that?"

"Ayuh." Paul stopped in his tracks. The rustling got quieter. In the short distance behind them the scarecrow's post was vacated. He gasped. "Benny run!" he screamed, bending down to grab some large rocks from the side of the road, and picked up pace running behind the smaller boy. The rustling in the bushes became louder and was accompanied by a cackling laughter.

Paul stopped in his tracks and pitched a rock into where the leaves and stalks were moving. A yelp of pain came from behind them and he pitched another one, harder this time. Another yelp followed, and he kept pitching rocks. Benny stood a few feet away scared but in awe. When he snapped out of it he began throwing rocks too. The yelps of pain turned into cries as two preteen boys and a scarecrow stumbled out of the bushes and surrendered their prank, pleading for an end to the assault of rocks. The taller of the two used the scarecrow as a shield.

"Had enough?!" Paul yelled as he was about to pitch his last rock, the boys were already on the run. He released the last one pegging the boy carrying the scarecrow in the head, and bringing him to the floor. Paul turned, grabbed Benny's arm and pulled him into a sprint back into town. The younger boy huffed and puffed, his short legs weren't ideal for such a run. Paul on the other hand was exhilarated. They chuckled a bit as they reached Benny's front porch.

Sure enough, a girl, who had the same carrot top hair as her brother, waited on the stoop. Elizabeth Thompson was Paul Morlock's first and only crush. She was a freckle-faced girl and of the same age. Paul couldn't form sentences for introduction but Benny tried to compensate in his excited fashion, ranting incoherent sentences about baseball, rocks, and scarecrows to his sister. She nodded politely but it was obvious she was confused. Lizzie Thompson extended her hand for Paul to shake but instead he excused himself and ran home. He never would become friends with Benny, nor would he see Lizzie again. And if he only knew it, he never did need a bat to play baseball, Paul Morlock was already a very good pitcher even if he was a few inches too short to play in the leagues. If he only had a chance he'd be one of the best that the leagues ever had, and there were two boys on the way home from the corn maze that would be able to vouch for that.

Lucky number thirteen, he thought again as he stepped inside the house with his muddy shoes, smile still plastered on his face. He was content, and exhilarated, and goofy over a freckle-faced girl he only just laid eyes on. Paul Morlock defeated a demon that night, a demon that charades as a number in the minds of many. But there was another demon he couldn't shake, one that still haunted his dreams at night.

"One."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Two."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Three."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Four."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Five."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Six."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Seven."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Eight."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Nine."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Ten."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Eleven."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Twelve."

_ Bloody Mary _

"Thirteen."

_Breathe and wait. Just wait, Paul. There's nothing there. _


	10. Chapter 9: Lye Still and Die

Paul looked down at his hands in the fragments of light coming through the cracks of the wood panel door

Paul looked down at his hands in the fragments of light coming through the cracks of the wood panel door. They were bruising already, red and still throbbing. They hadn't even recovered from the last time he had used them for such a purpose. He had lost his temper again. Paul Morlock ran his thumb over the sore spot and thought of his father. Was he becoming like him?

Opening his fist, Paul flinched in pain. His mother would surely notice. So would his aunt … she never missed a thing. What would he say to them? He knew what he wanted to say. "You should have seen the other guy." He smirked to himself, and reclined his head against the back wall of the shed he was hiding in. Hiding like a scared little boy, what would his father say?

He took a deep breath and decided to make the most of his time in his self-made prison cell. He'd be late for his dinner, but he knew the Thomas McLane wouldn't be late for his, providing the perfect window of opportunity. McLane had two parents, one being a strict father, who wouldn't stand for such tardiness. He also had a large appetite, which wouldn't be suppressed long enough for another fight.

Paul took a breath and turned his attention to the stray boxes scattered to either side of him. His neighbors were away and he didn't see anything wrong with having a peek at what they were keeping in their garden shed. He took note of the inventory: some ceramic pots, two racks, a bucket of gardening tools, fertilizer, and some bottled chemicals. Paul picked up one of the bottles labeled "lye". He examined it carefully. A warning sticker indicated it was a corrosive.

Paul Morlock had been visiting demons again. The one in his mirror back in Derry and the many that lay quietly in his head had resurfaced that afternoon - the demons that told him it was all his fault. He had stolen his aunt's cigarettes again, and had been smoking one in an alley behind the drug store and shoe repair shop. It was a good spot to smoke a cigarette and not get caught, and a good spot for someone to be alone as Paul often was. He had stolen her flask too. It still had some whiskey in it. Paul didn't worry about getting away with it, she had more, and by the time he'd get home she'd be too drunk to notice.

Thomas McLane wasn't looking for the kind of trouble that followed. He was looking for the kind he couldn't find in his own home, the kind Paul was in possession of and unwilling to hand over.

"Bees Knees, Morlock, think I can get me one of them cigarettes?" McLane entered the alley from the back door of the shoe repair shop; he had been working there shining shoes for chump change on the weekends.

"For a price." Paul smiled. " I know you just got paid."

"I can't pay you Paul, my family needs the money. I'm going to give it to them when I go home for supper."

"Well, isn't that a crock of shit. Pops takes your pay, doesn't sound like family to me."

"I guess you wouldn't know anything about family since your father killed himself." Even being away from Derry the rumor mill had its ties.

Paul stood silent as the anger filled his body. His shoulder twitched and his eyes bore into Thomas'. He stepped up next to the larger boy, meeting his eyes with his cold gaze. He stood so close Thomas McLane could feel Paul's warm breath on his face.

"My father didn't kill himself," Paul spoke calmly but sternly. "Bloody Mary killed him."

Thomas stifled a laugh. He looked for humor in Paul Morlock's green eyes but there was none. A chill raced down his spine as he became suddenly unsure of Paul's intentions. Paul stepped back a little.

"Now that we've settled that, do you still want a cigarette?"

McLane laughed with a sigh of relief. "Yeah, sure. Heh, so you really believe in that craziness. I mean … that's lunacy. Bloody Mary, heh. You're kidding right?"

"Do you want the cigarette or not?" Paul asked, holding the pack up in his hand, seemingly ignoring the question.

"Yes, yes, give it here."

Mclane eagerly extended his hand to receive his reward. Paul opened the packet and removed one. He took another drag of his own and brought the flaming bud down on Thomas' McLane's outstretched palm, eliciting a high-pitched scream from the larger boy. Paul placed the unlit cigarette between his lips, savored the sight of the larger boy clutching his palm while screaming in agony, and then proceeded to sock him a few good ones in the jaw.

"That shit is for crazzzies! Huh? Well, you're looking at one! I'm crazy! Right? Crazy! And it doesn't matter what I do because I'm just so crazy!"

The larger boy swung his uninjured hand into Paul's gut and sent him backwards onto the ground. Paul recovered quickly and got to his feet. He turned and didn't look back, but he heard the other boy yelling behind him. Thomas ran after him, but Paul was far ahead and he gave him the slip into the Barren's garden shed, where he stood quietly until he heard Thomas pass by.

To the left of the bottled chemicals Paul saw an object of interest resting against the wall. It wasn't shiny like the one he saw in the sewer, not so bright and reflective. He thought about what he saw in down there that night long ago, the gleaming light that seemed to drain all of his rational thought, then the mass that hovered over it, the screams that made his skin crawl. Or was it all imagined? He began to think it had been. Paul was getting older, it wasn't a part of him anymore, or so he thought. But the ax on the wall was still tempting to touch. Ol' Lizzy Borden would be proud, he thought to himself with a smirk. The Barren's sure had some funny ways of growing a garden, Paul thought as he reached up to grab the ax off the wall.

No sooner than he got it in his hands on the wooden handle the poorly constructed shelf that it was supporting collapsed. Buckets and pots came crashing down on to the cement floor beneath him. The doors of the shed flew open before Paul could gather his thoughts. Light poured into the darkened room and the adrenaline began to rush through Paul's veins. Regardless of who or what was behind him, he knew he was in trouble and that he'd have to run. Without thinking he grabbed the ax.

A thick hand grabbed the back of his neck to pull him back. Paul tried pulling at the ax but it was stuck. He flailed his arms in an attempt the escape the figure behind him. Turning he saw Thomas Mclane's rage filled face. He tried yanking the ax once again to no avail. Mclane's shoe met Paul's back and sent the smaller boy onto the floor with the mess of garden supplies. Paul backed himself up into the wall and slowly tried to stand up.

"I'm gonna kill ya, Morlock! Look what you did to my hand, you son of a bitch!" Thomas yelled, shoving his large palm in Paul's face. To his right Paul saw the bottle he inspected before, the top still loose. Without a second thought he grabbed it and threw the thick liquid into Thomas Mclane's face. The larger boy shrieked in agony, but Paul didn't hesitate to run.

His heart was pounding, as he broke free into the late afternoon sunlight. Thomas wasn't chasing after him, in fact, at that very moment his face was practically melting off, but Paul couldn't see that from behind the walls of the shed, and he didn't see the body he collided into either. Donald Barren was on his way to see what the commotion was about as Paul crashed into him. He fell back onto the grass beneath him and looked up and the forty-something year old man looking down at him with a stern face.

"What the hell is going on in my garden shed? You trying to rob me, Morlock?"

"No sir, no, I have to go…"

"Oh dear god …" Donald Barren trailed off and ran to the boy stumbling out of his garden shed holding his face, still screaming.

Paul turned to look behind him, not to look at Thomas' distorted face, but because of a sound he heard, a sound he dreaded to hear, and to see a little girl standing back in the shed, ringing a bell. A little girl he knew far too well. This time though she had some strange animal standing next to her.

_Mary, Mary, quite contrary_

_How does your garden grow?_

Paul got to his feet and ran without ever looking back.

"With silver bells, Paul, with silver bells," A voice in his head seemed to answer him.


End file.
